The Guardian (7 page)

“You look like a man who is ready to get somewhere. Do you need taxi?” Roberto hated that his English was a little broken, even after several years of practice.

“Um, yes,” the man said, flashing his wad of bills. “But I was wondering …. I have a niece who got here a little while ago. We are all here for a family vacation. Unfortunately, I have lost all my contact information. I’m afraid I don’t know how to get in touch with her. Her hotel and the rest of the information was written down. I’ve gone and lost the paper.” He shrugged and shook his head, looking foolish. “Hey! Wait a minute! I have a picture of her. Do you think if I showed it to you, you would recognize her?”

“Yes. Perhaps.” There was something not quite right about this

gringo
, but with so much money, who was Roberto to judge? “If she pretty American girl, I remember her.”

“My name’s Jack, by the way.” The man stuck out his hand.

“I am Roberto.”

“Well, Roberto, nice to meet you. Here’s the picture.” He reached into his coat pocket and took out a snap shot of a very pretty
Americana.

Roberto didn’t believe for a second that the girl was related at all to the man, but he’d learned to keep his mouth shut and his eyes closed about such things.

He thought he recognized the woman. “How long ago she come here?”

The man called Jack shrugged his shoulders. “Ah, I don’t know. Maybe an hour or two? She was on the earlier flight. That’s all I know.”

“Wait here.” Roberto turned and walked to the end of the taxi line and peeked into the window of the first car. He showed the driver the picture. The driver shook his head no, and Roberto moved on down the line. He worked his way to the end of the line, stopping at the next to last cab. The driver nodded. “I remember her. She was with a priest.”

Before he could motion to Jack, the man had flung open the taxi door and climbed into the backseat.

“Mr. Jack.” Roberto exchanged a glance with the cab driver. “I find your niece.” He and the driver both rolled their eyes. Americans were so impatient.

“Yeah, I saw him nodding when you asked.” He reached up over the backseat and handed Roberto a crisp one-hundred-dollar bill. “I know I’m jumping in line, but since he”—he pointed to the driver—”drove my niece, I’m just gonna let him drive me, too.” He pulled out another crisp one-hundred-dollar bill and waved it at Roberto. “That all right with you?”

Oh, more than all right. Roberto could overlook anything for that much money. “Sure, Mr. Jack. Whatever you want.”

“Let’s go.” The man took off his hat and threw the cabbie another hundred-dollar bill. “Don’t know why your friend there keeps calling me Jack. I told him three times my name was Bill!” The man called Jack, or
Bill
, leaned over the backseat and pulled the stack of bills from his pocket once more.

Pulling out three crisp one–hundred-dollar bills, he leaned into the front seat. “So where did you take them?”

“Downtown,” the cabbie quickly answered, eyeing the cash. “You want to go there?”

“Yes I do.”

Roberto walked away, shaking his head and fingering his cash. He hoped the girl would be fine—there was something suspicious about the man. But as he slid the bills into his pocket, his mind filled with how to spend the windfall. The Americana would just have to look after herself.

The driver took “Bill” to the same location he had brought his previous passengers. He pulled around to the side of the hotel as Bill instructed him to do and put the car in Park.

Bill got out of the cab’s backseat and opened the driver’s door. “Get out.”

“Please! I am just cab driver. I know nothing. I don’t want know anything,” the driver said with a nervous twitch in his voice.

Bill swallowed his rage. Third world cab drivers were all as dumb as dirt. “Calm down, chief. I’m not stealing your cab. I just want to show you something.”

The cabbie reluctantly opened his door and stepped out.

Bill stood against the cab, hiding his face from the street and passersby behind them. He pulled out another stack of bills and began to peel them off. “This is two thousand American dollars.” Predictably, the cabbie’s eyes lit at the sight of the cash. “Tomorrow, I have a friend who’s coming into town. It’s very important that he find me. Do you understand?” The cabbie’s head bobbed up and down. “Good. He will arrive at gate 6. He will be looking for a cab driver wearing this hat.” He pulled a brown baseball hat out of his bag. “Tomorrow, put the hat on and wait for him. Only him. No other fares. You understand?” Again the cabbie nodded. “Good. Gate 6. Pick him up and bring him here, and there’s another two grand waiting for you.” He closed the gap between them and poked his finger into the cabbie’s chest. “And if you want to keep that money or get the rest, you’d better keep your mouth shut! You got that?”

The cabbie stretched out his hand and took the cash. “Your friend … I will pick him up. I say nothing to nobody. I drop him off right here!”

“Good.” Bill turned to walk away. “Make sure you wear the hat.”

J
onathan stepped off the jetway and into the airport, feeling the assault of the ridiculous humidity that plagued this part of the world. He hated foreign countries, especially third world foreign countries.

He made his way out to the taxi stand and looked for the driver wearing the familiar baseball hat. He had a stiff neck from trying to sleep on the plane, he was tired, and he hadn’t had his breakfast yet. Only one of those things was, in itself, usually enough to get anyone who looked at him crossways a one-way ticket to the afterlife. Today, however, he was on a tight schedule. He didn’t have time for pettiness.

For that reason, he ignored the fat Latino man who continued to give him a piece of his mind as he cut his way through the line. The fat man had more bags than he could carry and was trying to get into the cab that Jonathan knew was reserved for him.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Jonathan spoke pleasantly to the man. “I’m afraid I’ve called ahead to reserve this particular taxi. See there?”

Then to the driver, “Nice hat. A friend of mine has one just like it. Name’s Jonathan.” He grabbed his hand and shook it, passing the driver a few crisp bills.

The driver immediately began loading his things into the trunk, his hands sweating profusely. This must be the man the American agent told him about. He turned to the other man and said, “Sorry, sir, this cab already paid for.”

“I don’t care if you’ve bought the whole
coché!”
The fat man continued. “I was here first! And unless you want me to call airport security, I suggest you get in line like the rest of us!” His English was very good. The man sounded educated.

Jonathan leaned in close and whispered something to the fat man. Instantly the fat man’s eyes widened and he stepped back a step. The fat man looked horror-stricken. He moved out of the way and didn’t say another word. Jonathan got into the cab and waited for the driver to pull away.

“What did you say to him?” The driver asked.

“I asked him if he believed in the devil.”

“What did he say?” The driver asked.

“He said yes. I told him I
was
the devil.” Jonathan laughed. He no more believed in the devil than he did in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, or God Himself. He only believed in here and now. He would take what was here and enjoy it now. Money talked with Jonathan. That was his deity.

He didn’t care about any scroll. All he cared about was getting paid. And the cardinal did just that. Handsomely, too. Maybe this would be his last job. He had enough to go away and live like a king for the rest of his days. All he had to do was find this stupid scroll and he would be doubling that amount.
Yes
, he thought,
this might just be the last job.

“You should not make light of
el diablo, señor.”
The driver looked hesitantly at Jonathan through the rearview mirror. “The devil, he is very powerful.”

“Well, then it’s a good thing I don’t believe in him. Huh?” Jonathan mumbled back at the driver.

“Sorry? What you say?” The driver asked.

“Nothing, chief. Why don’t you just drive me to where you dropped my partner off. Okay?”

The driver did as he was told and didn’t say another word the rest of the short drive into town. He pulled around the side of the hotel and waited for his passenger to get out. “Here you go.”

The alley was deserted. Jonathan looked behind him to see if there were any passersby. No one. He leaned his head out the back window and moved his head around in a circle. Nobody looking out of the windows. No one out on any balconies. Very good!

“You know, chief, my partner wasn’t entirely truthful to you.” Jonathan pulled his head back inside the cab.

“He wasn’t?” The cab driver looked confused. “How do you mean?”

“Well, I know he promised you another two thousand for bringing me here. But I’m afraid this is all I have for you.” Jonathan brought his arm up to rest on the back of the driver’s seat. He leveled his silenced 9mm pistol and fired off two rounds into the back of the driver’s head.

F
ather Ruiz.” Father Vin extended his hand. “I am Father Vincent Marcella. This is Anna Riley.”

Anna shook the priest’s hand. She was a little taken aback at being in the private chambers of the priest. There were a lot of robes and Catholic artifacts hanging on the walls. It all seemed kind of spooky to her.

Father Ruiz greeted his guests. “It’s nice to meet you, Anna, Father Vincent. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“We are just visiting your lovely country.” Father Vin smiled. “We thought we would take in a Mass. Your sanctuary is amazing.”

“Thank you,” Father Ruiz humbly bowed. “It is very old. A lot of history in this place.” The priest scrunched his eyebrows and turned his attention to Anna. “Riley … I seem to recall a Riley. I think I met a Thomas Riley once.”

“That was my grandfather,” Anna said. “He’s passed away.”

“I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t know.” Father Ruiz seemed genuinely saddened.

“That’s actually what we came to talk to you about, Father,” Father Vin explained. “I must be honest with you. While we really look forward to seeing Mass in your native setting, we are anxious to talk to you about Anna’s grandfather.”

“Yes, I see.” Father Ruiz studied his visitors now. He looked at them skeptically. “Well, perhaps I’ll have a few minutes after our service. I’m afraid, though, I must get ready right now. Mass starts in three minutes.” He studied them intently as if he wanted to say something. It seemed he’d changed his mind. “Father Marcella—”

“Please, call me Father Vin. Everyone else does.”

The priest smiled. “Would you like to assist me with our Mass this morning? It would please me greatly to worship side by side with you.”

“I would be honored,” Father Vin bowed his head and accepted the invitation. “I’m afraid, though, my Spanish is pretty rusty. You’ll have to forgive me.”

As the two priests prepared for the start of Mass, Father Vin leaned in to speak to his colleague. “You’re still trying to figure out what to do with us, aren’t you?”

Father Ruiz smiled wryly. “I have forty-eight minutes, my friend.”

And with that, Mass began.

C
ardinal Joseph McCoy had dreamed of becoming pope ever since he had become a priest. He would lie in his bed each night planning, thinking about all of the things he needed to do. He had studied every papal election for the last one hundred years. He knew what it took. And he knew how to get it. And he would be pope. Why? Because he was the best con man the Vatican had ever seen.

If they only knew half of his past, what he was before he became a priest, they would probably hang him in St. Peter’s Basilica. Forget his life before being a priest. If they knew what he’d done as a priest, they’d probably just bury him under the jail.

Cardinal Joseph McCoy wasn’t as saintly as most people thought him to be. He had secrets. A previous life. His real name wasn’t even Joseph McCoy. He changed it to fit the profile he had created for his application to the seminary.

When Joseph Sikeston—his real name—was young, he got into a lot of trouble. It was always about power with him. He needed to feel the power of being in charge. His need eventually got him thrown into a juvenile center for boys. That’s where he met Father Ryan.

Father Ryan would tell him, “Joseph, if you don’t watch out, you’re gonna be the devil’s own personal instrument!” Joseph would just ignore the pompous old man, until one day he heard Father Ryan talk about a man called the pope.

The pope. Now there was a man of power. An entire body of people, an entire religion, at the beck and call of one man. And Joseph decided then and there that he wanted to be the pope. He didn’t care about all of the religious stuff. He just wanted that power. He started planning that day. With Father Ryan’s help, he was on his way.

Now, some forty years later, Joseph Sikeston was Cardinal Joseph McCoy. He set down his drink and checked his watch. Eleven forty. It was time to go. He was expected for a meeting. He would be early, of course. He always was. Punctuality was one of his strongest characteristics.

He walked out of the outdoor café and headed for his car. He could already taste the bitterness of the next hour. He wasn’t looking forward to his appointment. Really and truthfully, he thought it was a waste of time. All they ever did at these meetings was talk. He had yet to see any kind of action. A bunch of tired, old windbags, he thought.

Rome, Just Outside the City

Cardinal Wickham sat alone in a high-backed mahogany chair. He sat at the head of an eight-foot-long, antique table. The room in which he sat was in the back of a historic, old country house. Technically, he owned the house, though one would have to do a major investigation to find any trace of a document with his name on it. Not that there was anything wrong with owning a property like this, but the kinds of activities that took place here on a somewhat regular basis were not the kinds of things that a prominent cardinal should be associated with.